


A Point Adrift in Time

by Kryptaria



Category: Captain America (Movies), Doctor Who (2005)
Genre: Angst, Fluff, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-27
Updated: 2014-04-27
Packaged: 2018-01-20 23:01:24
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,965
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1528934
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kryptaria/pseuds/Kryptaria
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sometimes, a point in time becomes fixed. Steve, though, is adrift, exiled from his own time. Banished from the familiar. Lost. Without hope.</p><p>Sometimes, all that one point needs is another point.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Point Adrift in Time

**Author's Note:**

> Another quick, bunny-inspired ficlet.
> 
> Thanks to Rayvanfox and Zephyrfox (the foxes!) for a quick beta!  
> ~~~

The old neighborhood had changed. Steve stared out the windows, looking for anything familiar. His mind scrabbled against the sights like... well, like a soldier trying to climb a greased flagpole. Only this time, there was no cotter pin at the bottom, and Steve would never reach the flag at the top.

At the corner of Washington and Fulton, he said, “Here. Stop here.”

“You got it,” the cabbie answered, and swerved across two lanes of traffic.

Steve’s heart lodged in his throat, because old habits die hard, and cars should _not_ go as fast as they did. By some miracle, they made it to the curb alive. Steve took out his wallet and stared at the money there. The cost of the taxi ride from Manhattan _felt_ ridiculous, but Steve had already learned that he had no understanding of modern money. Food was plentiful and cheap, offered in a staggering variety without a care for the time of the year, but the simplest things were painfully expensive. His skin crawled at the thought of what his simple denim jeans and T-shirt had cost.

He shoved bills at the cabbie, who gave an awed, “Thanks!” Steve had probably given him too much, but that was no concern. Escape was.

He got out and walked, trying to disappear into a crowd that was white and black and so much more. He would’ve felt heartened by the way all these people had come together, but he’d skimmed the history books enough to know that ‘together’ wasn’t really accurate. And maybe that was part of why he felt the way he did. Because the promise of the future — a world without war or prejudice or hatred — hadn’t just been broken. It had been betrayed, crushed under the weight of more of the same bull.

So he walked, trying to become invisible, remembering what it was like to be the scrawny kid who really _was_ invisible. Back then, he’d had to shout to make himself heard — to scream his demand that he be allowed to do his part. Now, he tried to whisper.

But his body shouted with every step. He could feel the eyes sliding over his bare arms like hands. He could see the little flickers in passing faces. _Is that him? I’ve seen him before. Could it be...?_

The sunglasses and hat weren’t enough. Feeling trapped here, out in the open, he ducked into the first bar he found.

Naturally it wasn’t _really_ a bar, because all the old bars were gone. This one had a sofa and mismatched chairs pulled up to tables where everyone was fixated on their computers instead of talking to each other. The music... Could it even be called music? It was an assault on his ears, but he knew better than to hope he’d find something more palatable elsewhere.

And while there was a sort of bar with high stools, only one shelf held an assortment of beer bottles, none of which Steve recognised. The rest of the shelves had mugs — tiny mugs that wouldn’t hold more than a spoonful of liquid to giant mugs like fish bowls.

This wasn’t a bar. It was a coffee shop _and_ a bar. Lattes. Cappuccinos. Espresso. Half-caf, soy milk, light foam macchiatos. The one time Steve had tasted one, at Natasha’s insistence, he’d nearly been sick.

He nearly turned around and left, but he’d come this far on his road to nothing in particular, and he wasn’t one to retreat without a reason.

So he sat down on one of the stools and had a horrified moment when he couldn’t tell if the bartender was a man or a woman. Short hair, earrings not just in the ears but the nose, bottom lip, and one eyebrow... Cosmetics, but that didn’t mean anything. Steve had seen pictures of music stars — rock stars, they were called — in more makeup than the bartender wore.

The voice was indeterminate, pitched light and friendly. “Hey, handsome,” the bartender said with a grin that made the lip rings sparkle in the light. “What can I getcha?”

Well, Steve wasn’t about to ask, so instead he smiled back and said, “Coffee, please. Black.”

“Sumatra, Indonesia, chocolate hazelnut, or decaf blond?”

 _Coffee,_ Steve thought, despairing. Which of those was just plain _coffee?_ He felt his smile fading and shored it up, finally saying, “Whichever you think is best.”

That got him a wink. “You got it,” the bartender said, sashaying off to the incomprehensible machines behind the counter.

Uncomfortably, Steve glanced around a little more, but he was surrounded by reminders that he didn’t belong here. Everything he was, everything he had been, everyone who had ever mattered... All gone. From Dr. Erskine to Howard, from Bucky to Peggy... he was the last of them.

With a quiet sigh, he shifted on the stool so he could reach into his pocket for the one reminder he allowed himself to carry. He opened the stainless steel and cupped it in his hands. Peggy smiled brightly at him from an old black and white photo, carefully trimmed to fit in the round lid. Steve smiled wistfully at it, wishing he’d had a picture of Bucky to go in there, too. A tiny part of Peggy lived on in this photo, but Bucky was lost to him, forever.

“That a pocketwatch?” the bartender asked, sliding a truly immense cup of coffee in front of him.

“A compass.”

“Huh. I got an app for that. Never used it, though.” The bartender laughed, showing a tongue piercing. “That’s some antique, man.”

“Yeah.” Steve’s smile faded. He passed over a five dollar bill to pay for the coffee. “An antique.”

 _Just like me_.

 

~~~

 

Caffeine didn’t affect Steve, but three cups of coffee passed the time long enough for him to not feel guilty about ordering a beer. That sparked another recitation of varieties that left him baffled, and while he nearly followed the same “Whichever you think is best” strategy, something told him not to trust beer chosen by a person who worked all day surrounded by this music.

“Whatever’s dark,” he finally said.

“Something German?” the bartender asked cheerily.

 _German?_ Steve had to remind himself that they weren’t at war with Germany anymore, but the notion of drinking _German_ beer felt... uncomfortable.

“Aw, make it a good old Guinness,” said a new voice from behind him in a lilting British accent just like Peggy’s. Steve’s heart skipped, even though this voice was male.

He turned to see a tall, lanky man in a pinstriped brown suit that made him look even taller and lankier. He had glasses and a mess of dark, spiky hair, and Steve would’ve politely refused, if not for the man’s smile. It was open and unguarded, lighting up his whole face, full of not just friendship but actual _caring_.

The man perched on the seat next to Steve and added, “Make that two, will you?”

“You got it, handsome,” the bartender said, leaving with an even more pronounced sashay that still didn’t hint at the bartender being male or female.

The British man turned the full force of his grin on Steve. “Hallo. Nice place. Very early twenty-first century. New York?”

“Brooklyn,” Steve answered automatically, wondering what the man meant by _early twenty-first century_. Other than the obvious, of course.

“Brooklyn! Hot dogs. Must remember to get a hot dog. Of course, you never know what’s in ’em.” The British man leaned a little closer to Steve and peered at him over his glasses. “Not real dogs, though. That’s the nice thing about Brooklyn. Always liked dogs. Had one once, for a little while. And there was K-9, of course. Not your usual type of dog, but absolutely a dog, and don’t you say otherwise.”

The man’s speech was like a fast-running river, sweeping Steve along, whether he wanted to go or not. “I’m sorry. Do I know you?” he asked when the man paused to take a breath.

“Oh! Right, right. I’m the Doctor,” he said, sticking out his hand.

“A —” For one instant, Steve wondered if this man was one of Director Fury’s psychiatrists. Had S.H.I.E.L.D. been tailing Steve from Manhattan? Was there a recovery team outside —

“Now, now,” the doctor interrupted smoothly. “Whatever it is you’re thinking, don’t. What’s your name?”

 _Whatever I’m thinking?_ Steve almost laughed, because there was no _possible_ way for this ‘doctor’ to know what he was thinking.

The doctor twitched his extended hand. “I’m the Doctor,” he said slowly, “and you are...”

Steve’s social reflexes finally kicked into gear. “Steve. Steve Rogers,” he said, clasping the man’s hand.

The doctor stiffened, and his eyes went so wide, the whites showed all around. “Oh!” he breathed, fingers clenching tight. He clapped his other palm to the back of Steve’s hand, holding him.

 _Anchoring_ him.

Some tight knot in Steve’s chest started to dislodge. He could see the sympathy in the doctor’s deep brown eyes. Sympathy without pity. Without scorn. With only understanding and a shared sadness that made Steve think, for the first time since he’d awakened, that there was someone else in the world who _understood_.

“Oh,” the doctor repeated, pressing Steve’s hand in both of his. “You don’t think you belong here, do you?”

Steve recovered, jerking his hand back. “Are you a shrink?”

Two arching brown brows shot up into that impossible hairline. “A shrink? Oh! A psychiatrist? No, no. Not a psychiatrist. I don’t really specialise at all, really. Just the Doctor. That’s me, the Doctor.”

When the words wound down, Steve tried to gather his thoughts. He was saved by the bartender passing over two beers. “Here you go, gentlemen.”

“Oh! And here, this should do it.” The doctor took an old-style ID wallet from his jacket pocket. “Charge, please.”

For a moment, the bartender frowned. Then, with a smile, the bartender said, “All right,” and went to the computer screen that people used instead of cash registers, these days. A moment later, she brought him a receipt, which he signed with a flourish. Watching closely, Steve saw he’d even signed _The Doctor_ instead of a name.

“Guinness,” the Doctor said in a serious, wise tone at odds with his manic grin. “No matter when you are, you can always trust Guinness.”

 _No matter when?_ Steve thought. But the Doctor took a drink, so Steve did the same, and to his pleased surprise, the Guinness was surprisingly good.

“See?” the Doctor asked, nudging his elbow into Steve’s bicep. “Always trust Guinness. Well, on Earth, anyway. Not on Craxifal. Translation errors there. Ordered a Guinness there once, and you wouldn’t _believe_ the tentacles.”

Despite himself, Steve laughed. Maybe this ‘doctor’ had escaped from an asylum.

“There you go,” the Doctor approved. “Knew you had it in you. Always remember to laugh, even when you find yourself somewhere you think you shouldn’t be.”

“But...” Steve began, though words failed him.

“Now, now. No buts,” the Doctor scolded. “So what’s got you so glum? Good word, glum. _Glum, glum, glum._ Perfectly describes the feeling. Not many words are like that. I mean, platypus? Someone says _platypus_ , and you’re thinking it’s sort of a wet _splat_ sound, or maybe a medical condition. ‘Doctor, he’s got a case of platypus!’ But glum, now. Why are you glum?”

“There were... people,” Steve said, faltering all over again. He remembered a train. The mountains. The snow. The sense of loss as a part of _him_ had broken away and fallen with Bucky.

“People?”

“I... couldn’t be there for him. Them,” he corrected quickly. “Now they’re long gone. Years and years ago.”

“Maaaaaaybe,” the Doctor said, drawing the word out.

“No ‘maybe’ about it,” Steve said a touch bitterly. He took another drink of his beer, hoping to clear his mind, but all he could think of was having drinks with Bucky and the guys before going out on their mission. “They died a long time ago. And I couldn’t stop it. I couldn’t even make my date.”

“So, what you’re saying is, you’re alone?”

“Yeah.” Steve turned to look at the Doctor. The smile was gone, but not completely. A hint of it lingered in his bright eyes. “I’m... alone.”

“But you’re _not_ ,” the Doctor whispered, prodding Steve’s arm with one long finger. Then he pulled back and blinked at Steve.

Irritation prickled through Steve. “How would you — What’s that?” he asked warily, for now the Doctor was pointing something at him, something like a flashlight, only with spiky bits and an exposed bulb instead of a lens.

“Screwdriver, of course. How else would you... _Oh!_ ” The Doctor’s grin flashed back to life like the sun coming out from behind stormclouds. “You’re him! You’re Cap—”

 _“Shh!”_ Steve interrupted, cringing at the thought of all the attention he’d draw. He put up a hand and quickly said, “Look, thanks for the drink, but I should go.”

A new voice, right behind Steve, asked, “Already?”

Startled, because he hadn’t heard anyone sneak up behind him, Steve twisted around and saw another tall man in an old, familiar greatcoat. He slid awkwardly down from the stool, staring.

“RAF?” Steve asked, feeling slightly breathless, because the coat was _real_.

“Occasionally,” the man said, even though he was American, to judge by his accent. He stood to attention, though his cocky grin never faltered. If anything, it got a notch brighter, eclipsing even the Doctor’s smile. “Captain Jack Harkness, very much at your service.”

“It’s — but _how_?” Steve asked. The coat was _real_ , an artifact from Steve’s own time, right down to the musty smell of the wool that had warped and fitted itself to this impossibly young man’s shoulders.

The man winked at Steve. “Buy me a drink, and I’ll tell you.”

“No,” the Doctor said in a warning tone.

“But we’ve only just met,” Captain Harkness protested.

The Doctor got up off his stool. “Which is more than enough. Let’s go, Jack.”

Captain Harkness looked Steve over in an open, assessing way that would’ve been embarrassing if Steve hadn’t endured it far too many times since the serum. Once, that sort of regard had been a fantasy. _No one_ had looked at him that way; even Bucky had only ever looked at him with pity. Now, though, it was too much, and Steve felt his face go hot.

“Any time you want to reminisce, you come find me,” Captain Harkness said. “Cardiff. It’s in Wales. Ask for Torchwood.”

Torchwood? Maybe that was some sort of electronic mail address. He’d ask Natasha later.

The Doctor turned, beaming at Steve. “So _very_ nice to meet you, Steve Rogers. Thanks for the drink.”

“No, thank you. You paid,” Steve corrected, smiling.

“I did, didn’t I? Money. Strange thing, money. Better than some things, though. Laughter. On Ab-Ab-twelve, they use laughter as a currency, and it’s the most _depressing_ place you’ve ever been. As soon as you monetize it, it’s no fun at all.”

“Where did you say you’re from?” Steve asked, feeling some of that laughter bubble up inside himself. He was still alone and sad, but he was also alive, and _life_ wasn’t a gift to be scorned or tossed lightly aside.

“I didn’t. As for you... Blimey, you’re a big one, aren’t you?” the Doctor asked as if only now noticing.

“Yes. Yes, he is,” Captain Harkness purred.

 _“No,”_ the Doctor scolded, though he didn’t look away from Steve. “What was I saying? Oh, right. As for you, patience. Just a little more time, and you’ll see.”

“See what?”

“The answer, of course. The answer to the biggest question of all.”

Humoring the man, Steve teased, “The biggest question of all? You mean, what’s your name?”

The Doctor blinked as if startled. Then he laughed, shaking his head. “No, that’s not _your_ biggest question. Yours is _why_ , isn’t it? Why are you here? Why are you here, right now?”

Steve’s smile faded, and he tried to work up the words that had stuck in his throat again. “I...”

“Right. Your answer’s coming, Steve. You’re a point adrift in time, but not for long. What do _two_ points make?”

“A... a line?”

The Doctor blinked again. “Oh, if you’re in three dimensions, yes. But once you add a fourth dimension — like, say, _time_... Well, two points can _orbit_ around each other, holding each other tight, giving each other stability. Two points in time, Steve, no longer adrift.”

And then the Doctor was gone, striding out of the not-quite-a-bar, his long coat swishing around his even longer legs. Steve stared at him, feeling like the answer was _right there_ , just out of reach.

“Don’t you hate it when he does that?” Captain Harkness said. The smile he turned on Steve was gentler this time, a bit more sympathetic. “I meant what I said. If you want a drink or... well, just to talk” — he looked Steve over again — “Cardiff. Torchwood.”

“Torchwood,” Steve said, nodding. “You got it.”

“Take care, gorgeous. Good luck finding your point.” With one last wink and a grin, Captain Harkness went after the Doctor, breaking into a jog.

Steve sat back down and picked up his beer. This morning when he’d left Manhattan, he’d considered _really_ leaving. Get in a cab and go as far as he could, and then, when his wallet was empty, just start walking.

 _Two points make an orbit,_ he thought. Though his grasp of astrophysics was sketchy at best, somewhere in his mind, the idea made sense. But even if the physics were bad, the _feeling_ wasn’t.

He wouldn’t mind orbiting someone else and having someone orbit him.

He finished his drink, and the bartender joined him at once. “Another one, handsome?”

“Yeah. Another one,” he said, and smiled.


End file.
